


That Bad Type

by Sad Cowboy Malone (NobleMalone)



Series: Kîyanaw [6]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Morgan deserves to get is ass ate 2k19, Ass Play, Ass to Mouth, But in a sexy way, Cock & Ball Torture, Come Shot, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Feminization, Gags, Genderplay, Gun Kink, Homesteading Wholesomeness, Humiliation, M/M, Name-Calling, Period-Typical Sexism, Rape Fantasy, Rape Roleplay, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Roleplay, Slurs, Spoilers, Spoilers for the whole dang game, Threats of Violence, a surprising lack of spitting, heterosexual marriage as a kink, just in case, the usual, threats of object insertion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-10 21:53:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18416594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NobleMalone/pseuds/Sad%20Cowboy%20Malone
Summary: It doesn’t matter none, though, because it doesn’t even seem the outlaw is listening; he’s busy using one hand to spread Arthur wide, the other guiding the barrel of the gun to gently lift Arthur’s balls where they hang, vulnerable and exposed. Arthur can feel the man’s hot, eager breath ghosting over his asshole and he groans – wants that filthy mouth on him more than he’d ever admit.“I’m not going to hurt you,” the stranger says, and Arthur can hear the wicked devious smile in the lilt of his voice. “At least, not much, anyway.”---Kîyanaw– Us, inclusive; you and me.





	That Bad Type

**Author's Note:**

> Slurs used in this fic include; whore, slut, bitch, and my personal favourite, cum-rag.  
>  **This fic contains elements of non-con fantasy** , meaning that at points, one character says "no" and the other doesn't listen; however, this is understood to be a pre-negotiated and mutually satisfying fun time for all parties involved, and everyone has a good time.

“I think Peanut’s pregnant.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Sure, lookit her,” Arthur says, pointing to the she-goat as she waddles past the open door of Charles’s workshop, Pumpernickel in tow.

 

Charles considers the goat for a long moment.

“Maybe she’s just fat.”

 

“Nah, look! She’s carryin' twins, at least.”

 

“Well, I don’t know how she managed that,” Charles says, turning back to his work – he’s up to his elbows in moose brain, tanning a real fine hide they’d pulled from a bull what’d had the misfortune of meeting them in the woods the week before.

“ _I_ certainly wouldn’t fuck her.”

 

Arthur’s peeling howls of laughter have Charles smiling fondly to himself.

 

 

 

The autumn air is crisp and chill as they spend the afternoon in the workshop, Arthur keeping Charles quiet company as he works, skinning and tanning. Arthur’s reading a pamphlet on vegetable canning, though it’s not an exciting read, if the doodles Arthur’s drawn in the margins are anything to go by – little pencil sketches of chickens and Charles’s filthy hands, and a few scribbles that look suspiciously like a gaggle of happy little goat babies.

 

Near ‘round three o’clock, Arthur sighs and stretches before standing, dusting off his trousers lazily.

 

“I’m headin' to the barn,” he says, leaning into press a gentle kiss to the top of Charles’s head. “See you for dinner, ‘round six?”

 

“Always, _nîwah_.”

 

 

 

Arthur’s been in the barn about an hour, filling troughs and tossing hay, when it happens.

 

 He’s got his back turned to the door, just talking sweet to Taima as she nibbles oats from his flattened hand, when he hears the familiar _click_ of the hammer of a revolver being pulled back somewhere behind his head.

 

“Put your hands up, nice and easy, and no one gets hurt.”

 

The stranger’s voice is quiet and low, and it sends a shiver trembling down Arthur’s spine as he raises his hands.

 

“Turn around.”

 

Arthur’s heart is pounding loud in his ears and he can feel hammer of his pulse in his neck; he swallows nervously around the lump in his throat before he turns.

 

When he faces the stranger, Arthur very nearly gasps; the outlaw's got a bandanna pulled up over his mouth and nose, hiding the fierce cut of his jawline and his soft, full lips, but his eyes are dark and intense and Arthur feels pierced by them. With his long, dark hair tied up in a top-knot, the stranger looks dangerous and severe.

 

“Grab that,” the man says, gesturing with the long barrel of his shiny, polished revolver.

 

The strip of leather is wide and soft and warms quickly to Arthur’s skin when the outlaw binds Arthur’s wrists behind his back, checking the tension with a gentle tug and a quiet question; “Too tight?”

 

“Nah.”

 

The startled sound Arthur makes when the barrel of that revolver is shoved rudely into the small of his back, prodding him forward, is high-pitched and breathy and embarrassing – Arthur can tell just by the heat in his cheeks he’s blushing, pathetic and vulnerable and thrillingly frightened.

 

“Move,” the stranger commands gruffly, and Arthur knows then to head for the house, the stranger in tow.

 

 

 

Once they’re inside, the house still and quiet, Arthur realizes the true gravity of the situation at hand; just how powerless he is in this moment, how vulnerable. Charles is nowhere to be found and this dangerous stranger, this _outlaw_ , could do whatever he wants to, _take_ whatever he wants to. Could do whatever he wants to Arthur by force, and Arthur couldn’t stop him if he wanted to.

 

He doesn’t want to.

 

“Please,” Arthur gasps, even as he feels the man close in behind him, drawing up so close Arthur can feel the warmth of excited breath against the nape of his neck. “Please, we – you don’t gotta do this, mister, I ain’t got anything you want.”

 

“I don’t think that’s true.”

 

The stranger’s voice is low and sultry, full of implication as he pushes up against Arthur’s back, pressing the hard, hot line of his erection against Arthur’s ass and the cold barrel of the revolver into the soft skin beneath his jaw. His other arm is wrapped around Arthur’s midsection, palming at his chest through the fabric of his woolen shirt, and Arthur feels well and truly trapped.

 

“You have plenty I want.”

 

Arthur’s cock is unbearably hard where it’s stuck, desperate and leaking, in the leg of his trousers.

 

“I know what you are, _slut_.” The hiss of the word, sharp as hawthorn, draws a small sound from between Arthur’s lips. “Up here all alone, just waiting for someone to come and take you, fuck you like a barn animal, use you like a come-rag. As if you’re even worth my spit.”

 

“Please, mister, take whatever you want, please just don’t –“

 

“What I _want_ is to feel your pretty mouth wrapped around my cock when I choke you with it,” the stranger interrupts, voice deep and dripping with desire, and even through the fabric of the bandanna, his breath his hot and damp on Arthur’s skin.

 

“I want to watch you gag when I shoot my hot load down your throat.”

 

“ _Please_ –“

 

The press of the revolver against the underside of his chin traps whatever desperate plea Arthur’d been about to make.

 

“I want to beat your big, whore’s tits black and blue,” the man continues as he rucks up Arthur’s shirt to palm at the hot, flushing flesh of his chest, cruelly pinching a nipple, pulling hard enough to draw a pained gasp from between Arthur’s lips; he can’t help the way he pushes his chest into the pain at the same time he grinds his ass back against the stranger’s cock, biting his lip keep from moaning.

 

“Beat them until you cry and beg, and then I’m going to stick my big, hard cock in your tight pussy – “

 

It’s so vulgar, so ridiculous and obscene – his _pussy_ , like he’s a woman, a dirty whore, _Christ_ – Arthur groans in spite of his efforts to keep quiet, to not let on how bad he wants this.

 

“Please,” he begs as firm fingers knead bruises into his tit and the barrel of the gun traces idly over his parted lips. “P-please, please don’t do this, you can’t. M-my, my, my – my husband will be home soon, please, please.”

 

The sound the stranger makes at the mention of a husband, as if Arthur is some innocent, unsullied housewife, is startled hungry and growling all at once, and it sends another shocking shiver of arousal down Arthur’s spine even as embarrassment burns bright on his cheeks. The way the man ruts up against him has Arthur choking out a soft, low groan, too.

 

“Your husband,” the outlaw repeats, and Arthur can hear the smile and the breathless desire in the man’s voice. “I don’t think he’ll mind sharing, much. Not a filthy, desperate, horny slut like you.”

 

It takes little more than the gentle press of the man’s body to have Arthur stepping forward, guided easily the few short paces to the kitchen table – blessedly cleared of its usual clutter – until the edge is pressing uncomfortably into his hips.

 

Arthurs not surprised when the outlaw grabs him roughly by the hair and shoves him, hard, to bend him over the table and press his face into the sanded-smooth and polished wood surface; even so, the impact knocks the wind from him and suddenly he’s coughing and gasping, lungs seized up tight like he’s sucking in air through his asshole.

 

 

 

Charles is there in an instant, hauling him back to standing and wrapping an arm around his broad chest to rub a calming hand over his sternum as Arthur struggles for air.

 

“You alright, _nîwah_?” Charles’s voice is soft and soothing in his ear – Arthur can’t help but tilt his head to rub his stubbled cheek against Charles’s, his chin hooked over Arthur’s shoulder.

 

“Sure, just – just gimme a moment, let me catch, catch my breath.”

 

“Want me to untie you?”

 

“No, no, s'alright, just gotta take a minute.”

 

They stand like that for a minute or three, Charles gently massaging Arthur’s chest and rolling his hips, patient and unbothered, to grind the bulge in his trousers against Arthur’s round ass until the tight, wheezing quality of his breathing has subsided.

 

“Okay, I’m good, I’m good,” Arthur says, once he’s got his breath back and he’s grown frustrated and desperate with Charles’s teasing, the way he’s whispering low and filthy nothings in Arthur’s ear.

“Let’s do this.”

 

“Alright, _omiyosiw_ ,” Charles replies; the way he presses a gentle kiss to the high arch of Arthur’s cheekbone, sweet and tender, is incongruous with the way the outlaw then pushes Arthur’s face back to meet the tabletop, his big hand spread over Arthurs cheek to hold him there.

 

 

 

“Look at you,” the stranger says, and his voice is hard and biting and lecherous as he draws the barrel of his gun from the nape of Arthur’s neck down over his spine. “Bent over for it like a needy bitch, ready to breed, desperate to be filled full. You want this, don’t you, slut? Tell me you want it.”

 

“No,” Arthur gasps, rolling his hips against the table; the way he’s bent over it, his hard, aching cock is trapped beneath him and _Christ_ does it hurt so good.

“Please, no, please. Don’t do this, please.”

 

But his begging is of little use; in one swift, easy motion, the outlaw drags Arthur’s jeans down to his knees to expose the soft, pale skin of his ass and the backs of his thighs, and Arthur can feel the thrilling ripple of humiliation radiate through his body – he knows the stranger can see the way his hole is still rosy red and rubbed raw, loose and open from the way Charles had pushed four thick, clever fingers inside to fuck him slow and tender just the night before.  

 

With his hands tied, Arthur can’t even cover his face to hide the burning flush of his cheeks.

 

 

 

“Jesus.” The stranger’s voice is almost reverent as he runs a hand over the smooth cheek of Arthur’s ass.

 “I knew you were a whore, _kiskânak_ , but this… you, gape –“ he pauses to draw in a deep breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth “– gaping for me. I bet there’s nothing you wouldn’t let me shove in this greedy cunt of yours.”

 

As if to illustrate the point, the outlaw draws the barrel of his revolver down through the crack of Arthur’s ass, pausing to gently press the cold steel tip against the rim of Arthur’s hole; not pushing in, just teasing, but testing the give of him as if seriously considering the idea. Fear and sharp, intense arousal drive through him like railroad spike, and it has Arthur clenching tight around nothing and jerking his hips forward, the drag of his cock on the tabletop drawing a hiss of pain from between his clenched teeth.

 

“Please, not that,” he gasps. “Not that, I - I'll suck it for you, mister, whatever you want. I’ll do anything, please, just, just don’t hurt me, _please_.”

 

He doesn’t mean it, really, but he says it anyway.

 

 

 

It doesn’t matter none, though, because it doesn’t even seem the outlaw is listening; he’s busy using one hand to spread Arthur wide, the other guiding the barrel of the gun to gently lift Arthur’s balls where they hang, vulnerable and exposed. Arthur can feel the man’s hot, eager breath ghosting over his asshole and he groans – wants that filthy mouth on him more than he’d ever admit.

 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the stranger says, and Arthur can hear the wicked devious smile in the lilt of his voice. “At least, not _much_ , anyway.”

 

The man brings a hand up to cup Arthur’s ballsack – Christ, he’s got a pair of those fingerless leather gloves, soft and smooth, Arthur hadn’t even noticed and damn is it _good_ – at the same time he swipes his tongue, broad and flat, over Arthur’s asshole, and both he and the stranger groan in tandem then.

 

When the outlaw, grunting quietly as he laps at Arthur’s hole, grips Arthur’s balls firmly but gently and _pulls_ , ever so slightly, Arthur isn’t moaning anymore; he’s shouting, wordless and desperate, pushing his ass back against that soft, wet mouth even as his hips buck to avoid the pressure that is just the right side of painful.

 

The dull pain and the soft, constant, radiating pleasure play off one another in a way that has Arthur forgetting himself, lost in it as he is.

 

“Christ, _Christ_ , Jesus, fuck! I’m gonna, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna fuckin’ come, please,” Arthur shouts, loud enough he’s sure it shakes the timbers of their little cabin the same way his legs are trembling like a newborn fawn’s.

 

But as good as it feels, as close as he is to going off, he realizes _can’t_ , actually can’t – not with his cock trapped beneath him, pressed hard against the unforgiving wood of the table with no relief from the pressure and his balls pulled away from his body the way they are, squeezed firm but gentle in the outlaw's strong hand.

“God, please, please, I wanna come, please!”

 

 

 

By the time the stranger withdraws, replacing that wet mouth with the blunt tip of his greased-up cock, Arthur is nearly brought to tears, desperate as he is; his balls feel achey and bruised and his cock _hurts_ , and all he wants is something inside him, for this cruel stranger to at least have the mercy of fucking him through the torture.

 

“Please, Charles,” he gasps, because as desperate as he is he can’t not beg, can’t keep himself from cajoling Charles into fucking him the way he needs to be fucked – and he _needs_ to be fucked, the same way he needs air to breath and needs Charles’s calm company to keep him sane in this new untroubled life of theirs.

 

“Hush, _nîwah,_ ” Charles says, and his voice is so soft and fond it makes Arthur’s heart feel full to bursting – and then the outlaw is stuffing his handkerchief, smelling of sweat and tobacco and firesmoke, into Arthur’s open mouth to gag him and Christ, if that doesn’t have Arthur moaning and blushing like a virgin all over again.

 

 

 

The stranger is silent, save for his quiet, panting breaths as he pushes his thick cock into Arthur’s ass, one slow, stretching slide until he’s all the way inside and Arthur can feel the man’s balls brushing gently against his taint. Even with the way Charles had stretched him just the night before, with the way he’s had his ass eaten wet and loose, with the generous application of slick to the cock inside him, the stretch still burns in the best of ways and has Arthur feeling filled to the brim – so full he imagines that, if he pressed hard enough, he could feel where that thick cock is stuffed deep and throbbing in his guts.

 

“Fuck,” the stranger growls, fisting a hand in Arthur’s hair as if he needs something to hold on to, something to keep him grounded in Arthur’s ass.

 

 

 

The first jerk of his hips is rough and sudden and has Arthur crying out; it doesn’t take more than half a dozen quick, hard thrusts to have Arthur boneless and howling, loud even through the makeshift gag.

 

“Fuck, whore, you – you take it so well, every damn inch, swallow my whole damn cock with your, your greedy whore cunt.”

Charles is rambling now, lost in it the same way Arthur is, running his mouth in the way he knows Arthur loves as he fucks Arthur the way he knows makes Arthur want to fucking _come_ , already. Christ he just wants to _come –_

 

All it takes for Arthur to finally, _finally_ go off, shooting thick ribbons of jism to splatter on the tabletop, is Charles hauling him up by the collar of his jacket to rest, spine-to-sternum, against Charles’s chest and three rough, firm strokes to his sore cock.

 

Charles’s arm wrapped around him, fingernails dug sharp and mean into the firm flesh of his chest, is all that holds him upright then.

 

“I’m going to shoot, shoot my whole load in your pussy, _kiskânak_ , _nîwah_ , you dirty god damned _slut_ ,” Charles gasps in Arthur’s ear as he fucks Arthur through his shaking, shivering orgasm. “Going to fill you so full you’ll, you’ll leak it for weeks, _nîwah_ , you’ll be w-wet like a girl for me, mine, my girl, my wet whore wife to fuck whenever I want, like it’s all you’re good for, you’re so good, so good for me –”

 

Even through the blurry aftershocks of his orgasm, Arthur can tell when Charles comes by the way he groans into the back of Arthur’s neck and bites sharp, stinging bruises into the soft skin there. Charles’s seed, spilling hot like a brand over the cheeks of Arthur’s ass, ain’t a bad indication either.

 

 

 

In the quiet moment that follows, Charles laving his tongue over those fresh-bitten bruises as they both try to catch their breath, Arthur wriggles his wrists free from where they’re bound behind his back and pulls the handkerchief from his mouth.

 

“You missed,” Arthur rasps deliriously, quiet and hoarse, and Charles’s responding chuckle has the same exhausted, fucked-out quality to it.

 

But Charles doesn’t say anything; just takes the damp handkerchief from Arthur’s hand and uses it to haphazardly wipe the semen from Arthur’s ass-cheeks – belatedly, Arthur realizes that, _hey,_ that’s _his_ handkerchief.  He’s about to say something about it when Charles stuffs the soiled bandanna rudely back between his lips, and Arthur swears he feels himself come again with the way the humiliation wracks through his body.

 

 

 

The short stumble to their bedroom is awkward and uncoordinated, with Arthur’s pants wrapped around his ankles as he clings to Charles, knees wobbling like a foal’s as they move. Charles is hardly better off; he can’t keep his lips from pressing soft, whispering kisses to Arthur’s flush cheeks, and his hands are clumsy and fumbling as he tugs Arthur’s boots off for him, tossing them haphazardly to the floor.

 

Somehow, Charles manages to get them both mostly undressed; once he’s got his own shirt off, he flops face first into the mattress with a satisfied, exhausted groan, reaching out to blindly slap a hand against Arthur’s naked chest.

 

After a moment, he hauls Arthur into a tight embrace, peppering the top of Arthur’s sweaty head with a hundred happy little kisses as Arthur pulls the tie from his soft hair to have I cascading over the both of them.

 

“How do you feel, _nîwah_?” Charles asks the top of Arthur’s head, and if Arthur didn’t know Charles as well as he does, he wouldn’t hear the hint of hesitancy in his voice – as if after all this time, Arthur could possibly not have loved the stupid shit they get up to. As if there were any possibility Arthur could not love _him_.

 

“Good,” is Arthur’s reply, slurred into the soft warmth of Charles’s chest, where he’s buried his face.

 

“Good?” Charles sounds surprised, maybe even a little disappointed. “Not like –“

 

“Like some nasty fucker with a sadistic streak and a mouth filthier than the Mississippi busted into my house and threshed my ass so good my god damned legs gone numb? _Naw_.”

Arthur’s voice drips with sarcasm as he drones, and it earns him a good-natured slap on the ass.

 

They spend a few quiet moments cuddling, and Arthur’s fingers itch for a cigarette, same as he knows Charles’s do, too; instead he makes himself content with nuzzling into the soft layers of Charles chest, taking comforting in the solid, immovable constancy of him. Charles is his, his man, and if being loved by Charles comes at the expense of life’s other pleasures, it might just be worth it.

 

He's just drifting off into a doze when Charles nudges him and he grunts – weren’t sleeping, really, just resting his eyes.

 

“So,” Charles says, and Arthur knows him well enough to hear the sly, teasing grin without seeing it.

 “Your husband, huh?”

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _nîwah_ \- my wife  
>  _omiyosiw_ \- precious thing, beautiful  
>  _kiskânak_ \- bitch, whore, derogatory term for women
> 
> i'm real tired of doing author's notes - y'all know the deal by now. 
> 
> this is me at possibly my nastiest fellas, the darkest part of me........ noncon fantasy roleplay...... yike.... i'm a bad filthy cowpoke.... sorry not sorry.... (just kidding i can get nastier)
> 
> Title from Billie Eilish's [bad guy](https://youtu.be/DyDfgMOUjCI).
> 
> **bonus** : [secret epilogue on my tumblr](https://assless-chapstick.tumblr.com/post/184099528723/secret-epilogue-to-that-bad-type-more-so).
> 
> if you wanna hear me shout about cowboy fuckin' and how much i love cringey dirt-talk ( _"use you like a cum-rag"_???) and stupid AUs, find my [tumblr](https://assless-chapstick.tumblr.com/).


End file.
